


A Groundhog Day in the Life of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson

by wendymarlowe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: CYOA, Choose Your Own Adventure, M/M, Too Many Tags To Name Them All
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 02:32:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 16,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12621192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/pseuds/wendymarlowe
Summary: A "choose your own adventure" fic that's kinda-casefic, kinda-romantic, kinda-fluff, kinda-smut, and kinda-angst. Hard to describe when there's not just one plot :-)





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> *Hopefully* I've got all the hyperlinks working, but please do comment if you find one that's wrong. If in doubt, go with the chapter number it says to.

Hey all! I had this idea after my 9-year-old suddenly discovered Choose Your Own Adventure stories (the original ones from my childhood, with the terribly overblown action cliches and all). Usually I post things a chapter at a time, but this required me to store them all up and blow up your inboxes. I hope y’all forgive me for the wait.

Obviously, reading this fic all on one page isn’t the best way to do it. You can follow the hyperlinks and use your back button if you like to be methodical, but my recommendation is to click “Chapter by Chapter,” then open the full-page index in a new tab. You can keep it open and click on the chapters there directly (open each in a new page to keep your place) and there won’t be any chance of accidentally spoilering yourself with an ending you hadn’t gotten to yet. It also allows you to track which chapters you’ve read so you’ll know if you missed something. If you comment on specific endings instead of on the fic as a whole, you'll avoid spoiling the branches for everyone else too :-)

Happy adventuring!

 

[CONTINUE TO CHAPTER 2](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12621192/chapters/28755772)


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock Holmes, John decided, was a dick. This wasn’t new information - everyone had been telling him variations on the same theme ever since he agreed to be Sherlock’s flatmate - but Sherlock’s latest actions confirmed it. The git was standing there in the kitchen, wearing John’s cooking apron over his pajamas and robe. He had two-hundred-pound protective gear covering his ears (John had found the receipt the day after Sherlock stuck him with a hefty cab fare claiming he had no cash) and was looking totally befuddled as to why John might be furious at him.

“It’s not like it damaged anything structural,” Sherlock argued, pulling the apron and shockproof headset off. “I did the maths first.”

“Did your maths account for the fact that it’s _two in the bloody morning_ and I was sleeping not three yards above where you set that thing off?” John looked pointedly upward. Sure enough, there were scorch marks on the ceiling from where Sherlock’s improvised explosive had left a distinctive char pattern. “It may not have broken anything down here but _my hearing_ is worth not damaging, you arse.”

“But if I gave you warning,” Sherlock said like he was explaining to a small child, “I would have had to wake you up anyway. And this experiment is extremely time sensitive - it’s for a case. A new one. Lestrade texted me an hour ago but you were sleeping.”

Of course it bloody would be. “Let’s hear it, then.” John crossed his arms and gave Sherlock his best _I fucking hate you right now_ glare. It was no more effective than usual, but giving up on the premise of annoyance would mean he’d have to do some soul-searching as to exactly why he let Sherlock walk all over him and John wasn’t ready for that. “Before Mrs. Hudson comes up to yell at you, too.”

“She won’t.” Sherlock looked offended that John even _considered_ questioning Mrs. Hudson’s loyalty. Willingness to put up with Sherlock’s shit, more like. “This one’s an eight, though! Ophthalmologist up and disappeared two nights ago. His wife, who was the co-owner of the practice, received a ransom note early yesterday morning demanding thirty million pounds - way more than any reasonable kidnapper could have expected her to come up with. They were well-off, but not _that_ rich. Then she showed up at her office like normal yesterday and narrowly missed being blown up by one of these.” He waved toward the detritus still on the table. “Stronger, of course, but a similar chemical signature. I’d have been able to do more if Lestrade had called me earlier, but he insisted on letting the fire crews demolish the evidence before he even let me know the case existed.”

“So you decided the best way to pursue this new case was not to drag me to the scene, but to build an IED in our kitchen.”

“Now that you’re awake, we can go.” Sherlock raised one eyebrow. “Problem?”

 

[IF JOHN BITES HIS TONGUE AND LETS SHERLOCK DRAG HIM INTO THE CASE, GO TO CHAPTER 3.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12621192/chapters/28755820)

 

[IF JOHN TELLS SHERLOCK OFF, GO TO CHAPTER 4.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12621192/chapters/28755840)


	3. Chapter 3

John let out a long sigh. “I hate you,” he grumbled. “All right, but you _are_ going to be cleaning that up when we get back, and I don’t want to hear a damn word of complaint about it.”

Sherlock muttered something which might have been acceptance and which he’d probably deny later. _Whatever_. John went back upstairs to change into “go stand around in the cold” clothes (which left him room to bring his Sig) and was ready to go five minutes later. Sherlock flagged them down a cab, despite it being the middle of the bloody night, and soon they were standing in the front parlor of a tremendously overdone home in Knightsbridge. Sherlock’s idea of “well-off but not _that_ rich” apparently included living in a several-million-pound row house in one of the poshest parts of London. Everything was white and modern and sterile-looking. John also didn’t need Sherlock’s deductive skills to notice that the two ophthalmologists didn’t have any children - no one in their right mind would have all-white upholstery and so many breakable knickknacks if there was a chance anyone under the age of about twenty was likely to be nearby.

“-already gone over the house, Sherlock,” Lestrade was saying. “We don’t even know if this was a crime scene. It looks unlikely - there’s no evidence of the doctor being forcibly kidnapped from inside, so chances are he left on his own volition and was taken from somewhere else. Or he’s purposely done a runner and is the one behind the ransom demand. Until we hear more from the kidnappers, there’s no way to know.”

Sherlock sniffed. “Of course there is,” he retorted. “As you would realize if you actually _looked._ Tell John about your erroneous conclusions so far; I’m going to examine the master bedroom.” He swanned off up the spiral staircase and left John shrugging apologetically to Lestrade.

“No worries, mate,” Lestrade said. “I know what he’s like.”

“Yeah. So.” John cleared his throat. “Kidnapping?”

“A bloody odd one.” Lestrade grimaced. “Missing man’s name is Lawrence Allen. Co-owned an ophthalmology practice with his wife, Cynthia Allen. Married four years - happily, from the way she tells it. The night before last, according to her, she went to bed before him like usual and when she woke up in the morning his side hadn’t been slept in. She found a note taped to the front door. Forensics has it now. It demanded money be wired to a specific account but didn’t give a reason - didn’t allude to the husband at all - so she put it aside to ask him about at the office.”

“He do that often? Not sleep and then go in early?”

Lestrade shrugged. “She didn’t seem to be surprised, but who knows.”

“Doesn’t sound ‘happily married’ to me,” John pointed out.

“I dunno,” Lestrade countered. “I was certainly happier when Annie and I didn’t see each other all that much.”

“Exactly.” The DI’s divorce had been a long and bitter one, but John couldn’t help but feel the man was better off single. “So she went to work and - what? Blew up?”

“We’re not sure on that either. Trying to track down CCTV footage from nearby, since the clinic’s system was blown all to hell. She claims she got to the office before any of the employees but found the back door unlocked. She was still in the reception area when the bomb went off. The neighbor called 999 but it took fire crews almost three hours to completely put it out - some sort of weird chemical fire, not your typical arson. I’m sure that’s the part Sherlock got all excited about. Anyway, she spent the rest of the day in A&E with some non-life-threatening burns. She’s still in hospital now - Donovan’s with her.”

“And you assume the husband was kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped or trying to kill her, yeah.”

“It’s almost certainly the latter,” Sherlock announced, reappearing at the top of the stairs and practically flying down them in his excitement. “You can tell by the state of his pillow. Come, John! The wife is at Chelsea and Westminster, I assume? Right. You don’t have to tell me; I can read it on you. Should have texted me earlier. John!”

“Slow down already, Sherlock!” John snapped, significantly louder than he’d planned to. “It’s almost three in the morning and she’s been there all day - she’s not going anywhere!”

 

[IF JOHN DRAGS THE INSOMNIAC WONDER BACK TO 221B TO GET SOME SLEEP SO THEY CAN VISIT AT A DECENT HOUR, GO TO CHAPTER 5.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12621192/chapters/28755876)

 

[IF JOHN GIVES IN AND GOES WITH SHERLOCK TO THE HOSPITAL TO INTERVIEW DR. ALLEN RIGHT AWAY, GO TO CHAPTER 6.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12621192/chapters/28761296)


	4. Chapter 4

“Yes, in fact.” Trust His Royal Consultingness to need basic human decency spelled out for him. “You may have deleted this, Sherlock, but I actually spent a rather large amount of time trying to _not_ get blown up before I met you. Years, even. I didn’t quite manage it.” John’s leg twinged, as if to remind him he hadn’t imagined it all. “You are a colossal arse on an amazingly regular basis, but this is a new low. Even for you.”

Sherlock frowned. “I fixed your limp...”

“Yeah, no. You gave me something to focus on, true, but that isn’t a free pass for every bloody thoughtless thing you ever feel like doing. You want to call me your best friend, you bloody well better start acting like it. And _this?_ ” John waved at the debris covering their kitchen. “This is _not on_.”

“It’s not an improvised explosive device, though,” Sherlock whined. “Those primarily cause damage through mechanical dispersal; this was a carefully measured exothermic reaction of-”

“Sherlock,” John growled, squeezing his fists so tight his nails bit into his palms, “ _shut your fucking mouth right now, so help me._ ”

Sherlock shut his mouth.

“Let me tell you a story.” It was a memory of an incident John had never told anyone about before, not even Ella. He didn’t particularly want to tell Sherlock, either, but the twat would probably deduce it anyway if he didn’t. “It happened when I was just starting my first tour. Being called ‘Captain Watson’ still felt new and strange. We were posted... well, it doesn’t matter where we were posted, but it was, in theory, civilization. Or the closest to it we were going to get. An actual hospital, running water, occasional chances to go get pissed on alcohol actually worth drinking. I ended up making decent friends with a bloke named Bill, who was the nurse I worked with more often than not. He was a strange one, definitely, but that bothered me less than it bothered the others.”

“Bill Murray,” Sherlock murmured. “The framed photograph on your windowsill has your names on the back.”

 _Of course he would have pried the photo out of the bloody frame to read a potential inscription._ After all the other invasions of privacy Sherlock injected into John’s life, it didn’t piss John off as much as he would have expected - and wasn’t _that_ a depressing thought. “That’s him,” he said.

“I assume he was injured by an IED and triggered some traumatic aspect of your past?”

“Sherlock.” John wished he could remember the word - there was a perfect German term for the berk’s _I-know-where-you’re-going-with-this-so-can-we-just-skip-to-the-part-where-I’m-brilliant_ expression. From what he could recall, it translated to something like “a face badly in need of punching.” One of these days he’d remember it when he needed it; Sherlock spoke flawless German. The mental picture of Sherlock being struck speechless for a moment was enough to get John back on track. “He was out having a smoke,” he continued. “Just like every other night when he first got up for his shift. I was still in bed.”

“And he was killed, yes. I can surmise the rest. But John-”

“If you don’t want me walking out this door right now and not coming back,” John said, low and deadly, “you’ll fucking let me finish.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. John glared steadily at him until Sherlock eventually seemed to come down on the side of bloody listening for once.

“He wasn’t killed,” John said once it was clear Sherlock was actually staying silent. “I mentioned he was a bit of an odd duck, right? Well he had a thing for pranks. He got it into his head to scare me. That particular night, he took a couple of firecrackers he’d smuggled onto the base and lit them outside not twenty feet from my bunk. I jumped up from a dead sleep and by the time I got outside, one of the Americans had shot him. Thought he was an enemy combatant who had infiltrated the base. I had my Sig in hand and was still halfway out of it - I would have probably gotten him if the other bloke hadn’t. Bill spent almost as long in rehab as I did, and he was never the same after. My _point_ is, I can’t decide whether you are just spectacularly ignorant of normal human emotions or whether you actually don’t fucking care.”

 

[IF SHERLOCK TRIES TO JUSTIFY WHY HE THINKS JOHN IS OVER-REACTING, GO TO CHAPTER 14.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12621192/chapters/28761680)

 

[IF SHERLOCK ACTUALLY APOLOGIZES, GO TO CHAPTER 15.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12621192/chapters/28761708)

 

(The word John’s looking for really does exist: Backpfeifengesicht. German is awesome.)


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock tried to throw a royal shitfit, of course, but John stood his ground. “We’re both exhausted and she probably is too. You’re not going to learn anything tonight.”

“Or she’s lying there coming up with an alibi. While you waste precious time on things like _sleep_. You already slept!” He faltered at the stony glare John threw him. “You... you went upstairs at... not good?”

“Waking me out of a PTSD nightmare with a literal IED in our kitchen? Bit not good, that.”

Sherlock looked abashed and then contrite at the admission. “I didn’t hear you,” he admitted.

“Wish I could say the same.”

Lestrade snickered, then turned bright red when he realized he’d laughed inappropriately soon after John had alluded to PTSD. “Sorry, mate,” he mumbled. “That was rude of me. Didn’t know you were still... yeah.”

John really wasn’t, as a general rule, but the dreams still popped up once every few months. He almost never woke up in a blind panic the way he had when he was first invalided home to London. Sherlock was remorseful at the moment, though, and John had no qualms about using that rare leverage when it occurred.

“I’ll be okay,” John promised, “but I really do think this should wait until tomorrow. I’m knackered and Sherlock hasn’t slept for at least forty-eight hours. Text me her room number and we’ll come by in the morning, yeah?”

He expected Sherlock to argue more with him, out of habit if nothing else, but Sherlock was oddly silent all the way home. John peeled off his jumper and trousers and fell back to sleep in just his pants two minutes after his face hit the pillow. If Sherlock paced and muttered all night, John wasn’t alert enough to listen.

*** 

He hadn’t bothered setting his alarm - it was his day off already, and Sherlock was 99% certain to come crashing into his bedroom the moment the sun was up anyway. Normal hospital visiting hours weren’t usually until afternoon and there was no way Sherlock was going to be willing to wait that long. If John was lucky (and if they’d had a fight about it recently, which they did about once a month) he’d get to sleep until the time he normally got up before Sherlock’s toddler-like patience gave out.

It was unusual, then, to wake up with actual sunlight on his face. 8:30, according to his phone. Either Sherlock already left without him or Lestrade had forbidden him access to Dr. Allen’s file unless he waited until a more civilized hour to harass her. John dressed quickly.

“Ready to go?” he asked aloud as he entered the kitchen. John expected Sherlock to be sitting at the table in a suit with coffee in hand, ready to dash out the door the moment John finished attending to plebeian needs such as _nutrition_. Instead, he found Sherlock lying flat on his back in the middle of the kitchen floor with his arm thrown over his face. There were still scorch marks on the ceiling from earlier.

“Hateful,” Sherlock declared with a dramatic huff.

“So we’re... not going yet?”

“Not going at all.” He lowered his arm and gave John a glare that was only somewhat lessened by the fact that he was lying halfway under the kitchen table. “Thanks to your idiotic attempt to manipulate me into _sleeping_ , we missed our chance. _Anderson_ solved it, just to make _that_ better. I’ll never forgive you.”

“Huh.” John was a bit less shocked than Sherlock - the Yarders were rather prone to solving things on occasion, seeing as it was their job and all - but it was still a bit of a surprise after all the urgency from before. “Was he really trying to kill his wife, then?”

“I don’t _know!_ ” Sherlock wailed. “Lestrade won’t tell me. Said Anderson provided the key piece of evidence to get the husband in custody, they got a confession this morning, and if he told me what the evidence was I’d sulk for weeks. I don’t _sulk_ , John.”

“You’ll deduce it eventually, I’m sure.”

“I hate you. Stop talking to me. Stop occupying the same room as me, where the molecules of your breath might accidentally touch me and make me _stupider.”_ He huffed again and rolled over to his side, putting his back to John.

“Of course you don’t sulk,” John said with more than a hint of sarcasm. “You’d never be so predictable as to sulk. I’m going back to bed, then - ta!”

*** 

Sherlock sulked the rest of the day, and all the next. He sulked for three solid weeks, until John was considering moving in with Mrs. Hudson instead because at least she wouldn’t glare at him like she’d kicked his puppy whenever they accidentally made eye contact with each other. Another case came along, eventually, and John managed to coax Sherlock out of his funk, but from then on any mention of the word “sleep” was met with the sharpest retorts Sherlock could muster. Eventually John stopped asking. If Sherlock was going to act like that, he was welcome do all his 2 AM cases alone.

 

THE END


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock spent the entire cab ride fidgeting and bouncing his knee. If he’d been a puppy, John would assumed he needed to go for a walk, but this was pretty typical Sherlock-keyed-up-about-a-case behavior so he tried his best to ignore it.

“The thing I have yet to figure out,” Sherlock suddenly announced, “is why the wife didn’t immediately suspect something was wrong. I’d be able to learn more if Lestrade would let me see the note . . .”

“You and the chain of evidence don’t always get along,” John pointed out. “Hopefully Dr. Allen - the female Dr. Allen - can help shed some light on things. If she’s awake, that is.”

“Of course she’s awake. Everyone’s always awake when they’re in hospital.”

“No, _you’re_ always awake when you’re in hospital, because you have the sleep schedule of an insomniac shark. _Normal_ people value their rest.”

Sherlock sniffed and didn’t say anything more until they got up to the correct floor. By a stroke of good luck, the nurse on duty recognized John (”Dr. Watson! Oh, I do so love your blog!”) and granted them access to Dr. Allen’s room. John was a bit peeved to discover Sherlock had been right - Cynthia Allen was awake, propped up in her bed, and watching an infomercial on the television. She had an IV in one arm and bandages around the other, and when Sherlock knocked on the door and strolled in without pausing she merely looked resigned.

“You’re with the police, I take it?” she asked.

“Consulting detective. This is my assistant, John. Tell me, Mrs. Allen-”

“- _Doctor_ Allen,” John murmured.

She flashed a brief smile at him.

“-What experience does your husband have with chemistry? Merely what was needed for medical school, or...?”

“He - why are you asking?”

“Because it relates to the case, obviously.” Clearly Sherlock wasn’t going to attempt any sort of empathy with this particular victim. John privately thought it was just as well - Sherlock was usually terrible at maintaining the facade unless he really was putting forth some effort and victims were often more hurt by the about-face than they would have been by his normal bluntness.

“It was his favorite subject at uni,” Dr. Allen said slowly. “And he subscribes to a few journals, just to keep current with the field. But ophthalmology has more of a biology focus, so...”

“Obviously.” Sherlock shot John a _can-you-believe-this-idiot_ look. “How was the practice doing financially?”

She blinked. “Fine, I think?”

“You don’t know?”

“Well it’s an awfully vague question,” she snapped. “Lawrence keeps the books, but we do all the hiring and make the major business decisions together. He enjoys playing with spreadsheets more than I do so he takes care of that part and I manage personnel. He hasn’t mentioned any recent changes, though. I know conventional wisdom is against mixing work and personal life, but we work well together.”

John cleared his throat. “There’s no delicate way to ask this,” he said, “but have there been any... office flirtations? Trouble at home? I’m a doctor too, albeit with a different specialization - I know how it can be at work. Long hours can make things difficult for a relationship.”

“No, of course not. Lawrence was always faithful to me.”

“Aha!” Sherlock flashed his blatantly fake appease-the-witness smile at her and nodded. “Come on, John. We should let Dr. Allen get her sleep.”

“But-”

“No, we’ve overstayed already.” He practically tugged John out the door. “Have a good night, Dr. Allen. I’m sure we can clear this up soon.”

John waited until they were out of earshot, then crossed his arms and refused to walk any farther until Sherlock explained what the bloody hell was going on.

“Her tenses, John,” Sherlock crowed. “She switched to past tense after your question, did you hear? Lawrence _was always_ faithful. She thinks of the relationship as over. And you’ll note she said nothing about her own fidelity, even though your question didn’t specify which partner you meant. Possible there’s a boyfriend in play. Whatever the circumstances were, she doesn’t expect her husband back.”

“Because he kidnapped himself?”

Sherlock’s grin turned manic. A nurse passing them in the hallway gave him a startled side-eye. “That, or because she orchestrated it. Convenient that the chemical bomb destroyed the office - for which, I’m sure, she’s going to get a generous insurance payout - but she sustained only minor damage. Burns on her arms and legs but none on her face. My experiment back at the flat confirmed this particular chemical mixture was child’s play to fine-tune - whoever set the bomb knew _exactly_ what the radius would be.”

“Huh. Okay.” John pulled out his phone. “You want to update Lestrade, or should I?”

Sherlock made a face. “ _John_ ,” he whined, “Lestrade will just go and _ruin_ it. This is our chance to prove our hypothesis.”

“Which is what?”

“That either the husband tried to kill his wife or that the wife had her husband kidnapped and is holding out for death benefits and insurance money when the ‘kidnappers’ find their demands aren’t met. We need to set a trap for her here, and we need to go track down the possibly-late Dr. Lawrence Allen.”

 

[IF JOHN AND SHERLOCK PURSUE THE WHEREABOUTS OF THE KIDNAPPED DOCTOR, GO TO CHAPTER 7.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12621192/chapters/28761336)

 

[IF JOHN INSISTS ON FILLING LESTRADE IN ON SHERLOCK’S DEDUCTIONS BEFORE DOING ANYTHING, GO TO CHAPTER 10.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12621192/chapters/28761492)

 

[IF JOHN ALLOWS SHERLOCK TO DESIGN A TRAP FOR CYNTHIA ALLEN, GO TO CHAPTER 11.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12621192/chapters/28761528)


	7. Chapter 7

The good news was that Sherlock needed some time to lie on the sofa and root through his mind palace for leads before he could dash off into danger. It meant John got another few hours of sleep. He awoke with Sherlock shaking his shoulder and practically dumping the Sig on his chest.

“Up, John!” Sherlock urged. “If the husband is the culprit, we’ve got about an hour before his train leaves. If we don’t catch him here Lestrade will have to call in the authorities in Inverness and it will take _forever._ ” He strode over to John’s wardrobe and started rifling through John’s jumpers. “The ash gray one, I think - no telling what color the inside of the storage building is painted, but gray is statistically the most likely. We may need the camouflage.”

“We literally chasing after a suspect, then?” John scrubbed his hand over his face and took a moment to finish waking up. He was still depressingly easy to awaken after a dead sleep, a product of his army days, and Sherlock took full advantage of it on way too many occasions. By the time Sherlock had found the jumper in question and was about to start rifling through John’s pants drawer, John was awake enough to shoo him out of the room and finish getting himself ready. They spent the entire cab ride in silence.

The storage facility was a sad-looking rent-by-the-month affair across the river in Lambeth. Sherlock waltzed in with a correct access code - heaven knew where he got it - and led John unerringly through the maze of narrow corridors to the smallest, cheapest section. The door on the very end was missing a padlock, which presumably saved Sherlock the trouble of picking it. He slid the metal contraption open and quickly dragged John inside before tugging it shut behind them.

“Is there a light in here?” John whispered. “I’ve got my phone, but would rather keep that ready to speed-dial Greg.”

“Use mine.” Sherlock switched his mobile on and pressed it into John’s hand.

“Huh. That explains the smell. Was he being held here?” John held Sherlock’s phone aloft and turned slowly in a circle. The storage room was deeper than he’d expected, long and narrow, but the near corner held a filthy bucket whose odor left no doubt as to its use as a temporary latrine. The rest of the room was taken up with an army-style cot, a few stacks of boxes, and a long folding table covered in what John was dismayed to realize he recognized as the type of chemistry equipment Sherlock tended to have lying about in the kitchen immediately before he blew things up.

“Not involuntarily,” Sherlock murmured, his attention already on the array of jars and flasks. “No tool marks on the inside of the door - he didn’t try to escape. Even if he were restrained for any length of time he’d have at least scuffed up the wall or the floor.”

“So... attempted murder of his wife, then?”

“It appears that way.” Sherlock motioned John and the light closer, then leaned in and started poking at various unlabeled containers. “Not currently explosive,” he explained for John’s benefit. “At this concentration, the most the acid will do is-”

Something started fizzing off to Sherlock’s left. It could have been triggered by the flimsy folding table shifting slightly or could have just been bad timing, but John got the light focused on it just as it popped the lid off the large jar it was held in and started literally crackling and smoking.

“John, don’t let it-”

 

[IF JOHN LUNGES FOR THE DOOR TO TRY AND GET THEM SAFELY OUTSIDE, TURN TO CHAPTER 8.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12621192/chapters/28761360)

 

[IF JOHN SHOVES SHERLOCK UNDER THE TABLE TO GET HIM OUT OF THE WAY OF AN IMMINENT EXPLOSION, TURN TO CHAPTER 9.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12621192/chapters/28761448)


	8. Chapter 8

The second or two before the jar exploded wasn’t nearly enough time for John to get the heavy door open more than a crack, much less to get the two of them to safety. He was operating entirely on instinct in that moment - one hand closing vice-like around Sherlock’s scrawny wrist, the other dropping Sherlock’s phone so he could scrabble for the latch. Sherlock seemed oddly reluctant to move, so John ended up physically hauling him off-balance and fully prepared to drag the berk if necessary. It was.

The jar burst into flames and then just plain burst. John was facing the door, so he only saw the brightness of the flash as reflected off the dull grey paint on the pocked metal, but Sherlock was still behind him and probably looking at it and almost certainly didn’t have the self-preservation instincts required to actually _bloody get away already_. His body protected John from the bulk of the blast, but the heat given off by the reaction was still immense. John’s brain was still stuck on “door open leave _now_ ” even as the rest of him was already turning back for his friend.

His friend, who hadn’t moved. John belatedly realized he’d finally _finally_ got the door open and yanked Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock crumpled to the floor.

“No!” The percussive blast of the explosion was still ringing in John’s ears, so Sherlock probably couldn’t hear him either, but John let his lungs have free reign anyway. Sherlock had collapsed face-down into his own lap, his arm still out at an awkward angle where John was holding it. The air was scorching and sharp and John was already mostly sobbing as he got a tighter hold on Sherlock and was able to start dragging him to safety, away from whatever _thing_ had just happened.

Sherlock stayed silent.

“No you don’t, you bloody bastard,” John gasped around the gravel in his respiratory system. “Sherlock!”

The dank air in the hallway was refreshing by comparison. John hauled Sherlock half a dozen body lengths away from the door before he dared stop and check the man over more thoroughly.

Sherlock wasn’t breathing.

He wasn’t blinking.

John sank the rest of the way to his knees and started CPR.

No pulse.

No heartbeat.

The tears started blurring John’s vision.

No more Sherlock.

It was unthinkable.

And yet.

No.

*** 

John was still curled over Sherlock’s body, sobbing and haphazardly attempting chest compressions despite Sherlock’s lack of response, when the police and EMTs charged in. Explosions in central London get noticed, apparently, even in the middle of the night. John fought them all. They eventually injected him with something to knock him out so they could wipe the rest of the mystery chemical off him, where it was already dissolving and burning his skin the same way it had to Sherlock’s.

 ***

People sometimes asked him about the scars, later. John ignored them until they left him alone. The only scar that mattered was invisible anyway.

 

THE END


	9. Chapter 9

The flimsy table wasn’t much of a blast shelter, but it was the only thing close enough at hand. John reacted entirely out of instinct: barrel into Sherlock, trip the lanky bastard, and try to get him under the table before whatever-it-was could take away the incredible man forever. He had just enough time to cover Sherlock’s body with his own before the jar exploded.

*** 

“John? John?”

John startled awake. One of the nurses was crouched in front of John’s chair, a hand on his shoulder.

“You dozed off again, mate. Feeling better now?”

John nodded fuzzily.

“You need a nap? Or are you up to having a visitor? Your old flatmate is here to see you.”

John thought. It felt like wading through molasses. “Flatmate. Starts with S?”

“That’s right.” The woman smiled. “Sherlock Holmes. He visits every week. Would you like to see him?”

 _Sherlock_. That was it. “Case?”

Her smile got a bit sad. “Yes, you used to solve cases together. I’ve read your blog - you two were good friends.”

“Sherlock doesn’t have friends,” John intoned automatically.

“I have you,” said a voice from the doorway. John turned to see a familiar tall figure in a long coat. “How are you today, John?”

That took some thought to answer too. “Tired,” John said finally. “Can we go home?”

Sherlock inhaled slowly, his lips pinched together. “Soon,” he said. John had a sneaking suspicion he wasn’t telling the truth. “I brought today’s newspaper, though - would you like to look for interesting cases with me?”

John liked looking for cases in the newspaper. Sherlock always read over his shoulder and made silly comments about the police. Sometimes he even said he solved things by reading them. John liked when Sherlock did that. Sherlock liked when John called him brilliant for it.

“Yes,” John said. If he had to stay at this new hospital a while longer, with the doctors and the medicine and all the sleeping he’d never been able to do back at 221B, at least he could still read the newspaper with Sherlock.

 

THE END


	10. Chapter 10

“It’s his _job_ , you berk.” John dodged Sherlock’s grabby hands and punched in Lestrade’s number anyway. “Does nobody any good for you to go chasing after a suspect if they’re just going to walk free once you catch them because you can’t be bothered to wait for the bloody Yard to do the parts of the work you don’t like.”

“But John . . .”

“Stow it.”

Lestrade picked up on the third ring, and John quickly filled him in on the condensed version of Sherlock’s theories. ( _“It’s not a theory, John! It’s a statistical-” “Shut it.”_ ) Lestrade made thoughtful noises at the end, and there was the scratching of his ever-blunt pencil on his little pocket notebook as he wrote down the highlights.

“I owe you one,” Lestrade said. “Go home and get some sleep, yeah? Call me when His Royal Highness has had a bit of a breather and you’ve had some shut-eye and I’ll fill you in with any new developments tomorrow.”

“Sherlock won’t like that.”

“Sherlock is welcome to come do the three hours worth of case reports I’ve got sitting on my desk, then, and when those are done I _might_ be willing to listen to his opinion. In the meantime, you may want to remind him that he’s only a ‘consulting detective’ for the Yard at my discretion.”

Sherlock, despite being far enough away he couldn’t possibly have been able to hear Lestrade’s end of the conversation, rolled his eyes and grumbled.

“Ta, Greg,” John said. “Talk to you tomorrow.”

*** 

They didn’t talk the next morning. Or rather, Sherlock did call Lestrade back at arse o’clock in the morning, but Lestrade told him to shut up and go do something nice for John, thankyouverymuch, his opinion wasn’t needed further. This resulted in Sherlock torturing his violin in a particularly hideous octave and Mrs. Hudson stomping up the stairs to tell him off. All in all, it was not one of the more restful mornings John had ever experienced.

“-won’t talk to me,” Sherlock ranted. His words were nominally directed at John, but since John hadn’t been there at the beginning of the rant he saw no reason to stay through until the end. He texted Greg instead.

 

_I’m up. Sherlock’s being a dick. Any suspects I can point him toward to terrorize today? Did the wife-having-a-boyfriend theory pan out?_

 

Greg’s reply came almost immediately.

 

 _Case out of our hands now_ , he answered. _You can tell Sherlock he was right about the kidnapping being fake, but I don’t know the rest of the details. Apparently the whole mess is now above my pay grade._

Sherlock groaned, and John realized with a start the berk was reading over his shoulder via the sitting room mirror. “Mycroft?” Sherlock asked.

 

 _Wish I had more of an answer for you, mate,_ Greg added. _Tell him he can bloody deduce it._

 

“John.” Sherlock flopped backwards onto the sofa and let out a disgusted sigh. “Promise me you won’t write this up in your blog, please. I intend to delete it as soon as possible.”

“Yeah, all right.” It’s not like half a case made much of a blog entry anyway. “You going to eat something today, or just swoon dramatically on the couch?”

Sherlock muttered something and rolled so his face was smashed into the Union Jack pillow. Dramatic swooning it was, then.

John decided to make toast anyway. It was shaping up to be a long, boring day.

 

THE END


	11. Chapter 11

Based on previous experience with Sherlock’s schemes, John expected the “trap” to be ingenious, complex, and morally questionable. It was a bit of a let-down, then, when Sherlock led him through a series of narrow but well-maintained streets and stopped, not at a hidden door or a secret bolt-hole, but an ATM.

“What?” Sherlock grumbled.

“Topping up for bribes to your homeless network? Or you just happen to have thirty million pounds sitting in your account and you’re going to pay the ransom yourself?”

“Don’t be more of an idiot than you absolutely must.” Sherlock finished his withdrawal, removed the large stack of notes from the drawer, and immediately started another. “Even in £50 notes, thirty million pounds would weigh over seven hundred kilograms and would require an inconveniently large lorry to carry it all around in. I rigged this particular machine to bypass the daily withdrawal limit ages ago, but we’re still constrained by the volume of bills present inside. At least until the banks open, anyway.”

“Didn’t exactly answer my question.”

Sherlock shot him a small sideways smile. “Your question was moot, anyway, seeing as this is Mycroft’s card.”

 _“Bloody-_ ”

“Not the first time I’ve used it,” Sherlock declared breezily. “And for right now, we’re merely withdrawing two thousand pounds for proof of intent. Whatever the arrangement, the kidnappers can’t possibly expect Dr. Allen to produce thirty million quid so quickly. Their initial demand was impossible, therefore they’re likely to be willing to negotiate if they want to get paid at all. Assuming money was the point of this, that is.”

“You don’t think it was?”

“I think there are several distinct possibilities, and money is only a motive in four. Come, let’s get back to the hospital.”

*** 

They retraced their steps and found Dr. Allen exactly as they’d left her, still watching late-night infomercials. Five minutes of charm (and an actual _apology_ from Sherlock about his former behavior, would wonders never cease) netted them a photo of the ransom note she’d had the foresight to snap with her mobile before the police took the note away. Sherlock tutted and typed rapidly on his phone for a few minutes, then dropped it back in his pocket and started prowling around the room.

“Sherlock?” John asked.

“Just a - oh, this will work.” Sherlock produced a small hospital-issue face towel from under the sink with a flourish. He produced the thick stack of bank notes from inside his coat and wrapped them in the towel with the drama of a magician preparing for a trick. “I already transferred fifty pounds to the kidnappers’ anonymous account, which allowed me to attach a memo to the transaction stating they can get the next two thousand here at the hospital and you’re frantic about knowing what you have to do next. Hiding it in here will require them to get past you, Dr. Allen - if you see someone you recognize, a face you know doesn’t belong here, please text me immediately. John, give her my card.”

“ _Our_ card,” John corrected, but he dug one out of his wallet and handed it over. Sherlock ignored him, choosing to place the wrapped cash back in the cupboard instead.

Dr. Allen frowned at them both. “Not that I don’t appreciate the effort,” she said, “but the police said-”

“Asking for thirty million pounds is _obviously_ for shock value,” Sherlock declared. “There’s no way they could reasonably expect to collect it. Two thousand is worth their effort to retrieve, especially if it allows them to establish good faith. And the sooner we show them we’re willing to play along, the more likely it is your husband will be returned unharmed.”

She bit her lip, but nodded. “I’ll pay you back once the police are done going over our accounts.”

“I would expect nothing less.” Sherlock pulled his phone back out and texted someone again, presumably another deposit-plus-note for the kidnappers, then whirled and beckoned John toward the doorway. “Come - Dr. Allen needs her rest.”

They drew to a halt just down the hall, Sherlock’s entire body vibrating with the barely-held-in excitement he often developed on the good cases. “Did you see that?” he murmured, grinning. “No questions about how I contacted the kidnappers, no anxiety about how her husband is faring. Very interesting.”

“You still think she’s faking the whole thing?”

“I think we ought to find out.”

 

[IF JOHN AND SHERLOCK CONDUCT A STAKEOUT AT THE HOSPITAL, GO TO CHAPTER 12.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12621192/chapters/28761572)

 

[IF THEY GO BACK TO 221B AND FOLLOW THE ELECTRONIC TRAIL OF MONEY INSTEAD, GO TO CHAPTER 13.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12621192/chapters/28761648)


	12. Chapter 12

There were definite downsides to conducting a stakeout at an unfamiliar hospital. Sherlock had the floor plan for Chelsea and Westminster all mapped out in his mind palace already, of course, but most of John’s experience was confined to Bart’s. He didn’t know any of the local staff, didn’t know where the public and the restricted areas were, and had absolutely no interest in attempting to impersonate a doctor for the duration of the night.

“Fine,” Sherlock grumbled. “I’ll do it. People see a white coat and they don’t question-”

“And where do you expect me to be, then?”

Sherlock waved vaguely toward the patient waiting area. “Kip out there, if you’re tired. Avoid the green chairs - that textured fabric accumulates bacteria at nearly three times the rate of the solid blue ones. I did an experiment on it once.”

“Of course you did.”

Sherlock went off to steal a lab coat (probably) and do Christ only knew what, but John had been on enough long cases with the berk to know it was always a good idea to get sleep when the occasion arose. Mostly because Sherlock wouldn’t ever think of it. John managed five hours of not-at-all-restful sleep - in a blue chair instead of the green, thankyouverymuch - and woke up every time someone passed through the room. There were a handful of other people in there with him, presumably friends and family members of other patients in the burn ward, but no one caught his attention as particularly troublesome. He only woke for good when Sherlock flounced in from the staff entrance and plopped himself down with an exaggerated groan.

“I see you found a white coat,” John said. His spine felt like someone had tied knots in it while he was sleeping. “Any luck?”

“Nothing.” Sherlock looked affronted. He was probably peeved at the kidnappers for not being as interestingly murder-y as he wanted. “The only people to enter Dr. Allen’s room have been her regular nurses, as scheduled on the roster, and none of them touched the wrapped money. Lestrade hasn’t been able to trace the bank account, either. Yes, I checked.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“You wanted to.”

John didn’t argue the point.

“They didn’t give a time frame,” Sherlock grumbled. “That reduces the chances of Lawrence Allen being returned safely by almost eighty percent. Chances are he’s already dead-”

The chime of his incoming call alert made both of them jump.

“Lestrade.” Sherlock immediately put his phone on speaker. “You’re calling. You never call.”

“You never answer,” Lestrade pointed out. “But in this case, I wanted you to hear directly - we found Lawrence Allen.”

“Alive?” John asked.

The prolonged silence on the other end of the line was all the answer Lestrade needed to give.

“Fuck.”

“He was tossed out of a white lorry in the middle of Whitechapel. Still warm when the EMTs got to him, but it was too late.” Lestrade cleared his throat. “There was another note in his pocket, looks like the same writing as the initial ransom demand. It . . . it was addressed to Sherlock.”

John and Sherlock exchanged a look.

“The message, and I quote, was ‘Pocket change is insulting. Believe me next time.’ Do I even want to know?”

Sherlock was very rarely speechless, but this was one of those occasions. His mouth opened and closed fruitlessly several times. The look in his eyes, though - John knew he’d be carrying that look to his grave.

“You don’t,” John answered, because it was clear Sherlock couldn’t. “But you’ll need to. We’re still at Chelsea and Westminster-”

“I can’t let you on the scene for this one,” Lestrade interrupted. “Now that Sherlock’s name is officially part of the evidence. Sit tight and I’ll be there in half an hour, okay? Tie Sherlock down to his chair or something if you have to. And _don’t_ talk to Cynthia Allen. Someone’s on their way to do that now.”

“As much as I love breaking the news to the next-of-kin,” Sherlock answered dryly, “I’m willing to leave that to your officers.”

“Ta. See you in a bit.”

John half expected Sherlock to storm off to 221B before Lestrade got there, but Sherlock seemed withdrawn instead. He even allowed John to usher him down to the cafeteria and to put a package of biscuits in front of him.

“Next time,” Sherlock said softly, his shoulders slumped. “Next time means a professional, which means this is probably Mycroft’s territory more than mine.”

“You didn’t know that when we started.” John took a biscuit out of the wrapper and put it in Sherlock’s hand. “The case isn’t over just because the victim is deceased; you know that.”

“I should have called Mycroft.”

“If you called Mycroft all the times you should have, he’d have no time left to run the country. You can still call him now.”

“It’s my fault.”

“Sherlock . . .”

“ _Next time_ , John _._ ”

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock didn’t speak up to defend himself even as Lestrade shouted at him about independent detecting and how stupid Sherlock was. John caught him by the arm and dragged him into the hallway before he could get a second wind.

“He’s taking this one badly,” John explained. “Feels personally responsible.”

“He damn well should.”

John gave Lestrade a look. “I’m just saying, if you consider him a friend, don’t lay it on too thick, okay? I’m the one who has to live with him.”

“You don’t _have_ to-”

“Greg.”

Lestrade sighed. “Sorry. Keep an eye on him, all right?”

“Danger nights. I know.” John forced a polite smile. “Okay if I get him home now?”

*** 

It was three days before John remembered the two thousand pounds Sherlock had left in Dr. Allen’s room.

 

THE END


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock’s methods were almost certainly not legal, but he had three names and an address for the suspected kidnappers by morning. John fell asleep on the sofa in 221B and woke up with a sore neck, an aching back, and Sherlock practically jumping up and down beside him.

“It was the boyfriend after all!” he exclaimed. “Up! We’ve got to hurry!”

John groaned and rubbed the bleariness from his eyes. “Thought they were supposed to be breaking into Dr. Allen’s hospital room?”

Sherlock waved the comment away with a negligent flick of his wrist. “Old news, John. That was just to ensure Dr. Allen stayed put while I traced the transfer. She has nowhere to hide the money while stuck in hospital, so she’ll have to wait to pocket it until she’s discharged later today. By that point, it will be too late.”

“For her husband?”

“For the whole scheme.” Sherlock bounced on the balls of his feet a few times. He was already in his Belstaff and scarf, John belatedly noticed. “Your tea is steeping - take the absolute minimum time necessary in the loo and it’ll be ready when you get out.”

John blinked. Sherlock never made tea.

“Yes, splash of milk, no sugar, I _know_. Go! I already alerted Lestrade to meet us there!”

John went. Sherlock pressed a styrofoam cup of tea into his hand afterward and practically tugged him out the door. The address Sherlock had uncovered turned out to be a row house in a slightly seedier part of London, busy street but little foot traffic. Three pandas and an ambulance were parked in front and there was already crime scene tape draped across the door.

“You didn’t wait for us,” Sherlock pouted at Lestrade once they got past the officer at the entrance.

“Oh, you noticed. If only I knew how that felt, I could sympathize.” Lestrade didn’t even turn to look at them, just continued to watch as two men in t-shirts and jeans were handcuffed and led out by Donovan and another sergeant John didn’t recognize. “Didn’t realize you’d be just ten minutes behind us, and it turned out we didn’t need you to trick them into letting us in after all - the idiots called out for lunch. Patel intercepted the delivery boy and swapped places with him, and what he was able to see when they opened the door for him gave us probable cause to enter without a warrant. Lawrence Allen was asleep in the basement.”

“Drugged?” John asked.

Lestrade nodded. “Seems that way. He’s still groggy, but the paramedics are down there with him now. He knew about his wife’s piece on the side, apparently, but wasn’t expecting the man to show up in the middle of the night and abduct him.”

John still felt two steps behind, which wasn’t unusual when on cases with Sherlock. “Cynthia Allen wasn’t involved, then?”

Sherlock snorted, cutting off whatever Lestrade had been about to say. “It was her idea in the first place,” he declared. “You saw the boyfriend - haircut like that, there’s no way he had the guts to carry off something like this. His friend wasn’t as ready to kill for money as he’d counted on, though, and he was too squeamish to do it himself. Cynthia Allen would have had to murder her husband personally after she was released from hospital tonight.”

“Jesus.” John could see it, unfortunately - the doctor had that controlled quality about her that would have let him believe she’d do anything, given the right incentive. Like, say, getting rid of her ophthalmology practice and her husband both at one time.

Lestrade groaned too. “Anything else I should know before we start asking them questions you obviously already know the answers to?”

“Undoubtedly,” Sherlock retorted. “But you won’t get around to interviewing them for hours, yet. And John didn’t get breakfast.”

John blinked. “Neither did you,” he pointed out.

“Exactly. Care to join me?” Sherlock turned his back on Lestrade and started walking toward the door, even as he was talking. “There’s a little cafe down the street from here, excellent croissants made with local honey. I’ll let you talk me into eating one.”

“Berk.” John shot Lestrade one last look, the I-can’t-help-it-this-is-just-how-he-is look, and followed. “You only ever say that when you’re starving already.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

“John...”

“Yeah, I’m coming.” John had to jog a bit to catch up with the long-legged git, but he was already feeling better. Solving cases, running after Sherlock, blogging about it, then urging Sherlock to eat... there were worse ways to live.

 

THE END


	14. Chapter 14

“I don’t _prank_ ,” Sherlock sniffed. “At least give me more credit than that. There was a perfectly sound scientific reason-”

“ _Not the point.”_

“Isn’t it?” Sherlock crossed his arms and glowered at John. “You seem to be under the impression I live my life for the purpose of antagonizing you. You’re wrong. While I’m flattered you consider me a friend - whatever nuance that particular word holds for you - I need to put The Work first. I told you that on our first day as flatmates. In case you need that spelled out for you, that means I do what I need to do to solve cases and yes, sometimes that will offend your unnecessary ‘normal human emotions.’ I can’t afford to compromise my ability to work in order to continually reassure you that your fragile ego is being taken care of.”

“Oh, that’s rich.” The berk had an ego the size of a small planet (or would, if he knew what planets were) and yet somehow _John_ was the one being too demanding. “Who’s the one who sulks if he doesn’t get to insult Anderson at least once per crime scene? Who pouts if his laundry doesn’t magically appear, clean, in his hamper? Who can’t bear even the slightest hint of his brother being intellectually superior in any way? Don’t tell me about my fragile ego, Sherlock. Pot, kettle, black.”

“You’re upset because I don’t care.”

“Damn right.” That was the crux of ninety percent of their arguments, anyway - Sherlock being a thoughtless dick and then not even understanding there was alternative behavior. “Why is that so hard for you? Caring? And don’t give me your ‘caring is not an advantage’ bullshit. I’ve heard it before.”

“That’s because it was true before. It’s still true.”

“A sentiment picked up from the brother you despise.”

“Doesn’t mean his argument isn’t sound. Caring is a _weakness_ , John. The day I start putting emotions before The Work is the day I stop being effective at what I do. It’s unfortunate if you can’t accept that, but that’s how I am.”

“Fuck you.” John closed his eyes and counted to ten so he wouldn’t give in to the impulse to make Sherlock _less effective_ at something like breathing or eating. Both of which the arse found boring anyway.

 

[IF JOHN REALIZES SHERLOCK JUST ISN’T GOING TO CHANGE, GO TO CHAPTER 16.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12621192/chapters/28761736)

 

[IF JOHN CALLS SHERLOCK’S BLUFF AND DARES HIM TO ‘NOT CARE,’ GO TO CHAPTER 17.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12621192/chapters/28761772)


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock was silent for a good minute and a half. John’s palms were itching with the blatantly excusable impulse to deck him if he said even _one_ thing to justify himself, but Sherlock crossed to the sitting room instead and sank down in his low-backed chair. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

John waited for the follow-up, but it never came. The lack threw him for a bit of a loop. “You are?” he asked stupidly.

Sherlock finally met his eye. “I may not say it often, but rest assured I do regret things on occasion. I hadn’t... I wasn’t thinking in that context. In light of your history.” Another pause. “For what it’s worth,” he added, “the chemical reaction wasn’t supposed to have been that robust. I may have exaggerated my ability to predict its magnitude.”

That sounded about right. “You mean you didn’t think it would trigger the PTSD you forgot I had?”

Usually Sherlock would argue against any hint that he wasn’t omniscient, but now he just winced and looked away.

John took up his own post in the significantly-more-comfortable armchair facing Sherlock and did some thinking of his own. They rarely had conversations this openly; Sherlock was either sulking or was so animated he couldn’t sit still long enough to talk like a normal person. The fact that he’d actually _apologized_ said a lot about his current mental state. He’d claimed the case was time-sensitive, but it couldn’t have been that bad if he was willing to delay long enough to appease his flatmate.

“I know you think you’re a sociopath,” John said, “but you know I don’t believe you when you say that. I know you’re capable of putting yourself in someone else’s shoes. It just... it bothers me when you choose not to. You know I can’t survive on no sleep like you do, you know I have PTSD and don’t always deal well with sudden loud noises. You know I bloody well don’t appreciate having to clean mystery experiments off the kitchen ceiling, but I have to anyway because you’d let them fossilize up there. All the data was there.”

“Were,” Sherlock interjected. “’Data’ is a plural noun.”

John gave him a look. Sherlock shut up.

“What I’m _saying_ is, you and your giant brain are perfectly capable of deducing that I probably wouldn’t appreciate being awakened at 2 AM by an explosion, case or not. And you chose to proceed anyway, with an experiment that both of us know wasn’t as vital to the case as you want me to believe it is. I don’t know whether that means you don’t value my well-being or whether you truly aren’t capable of empathizing with other people’s emotions. Am I wrong, to expect more from you?”

 

[IF SHERLOCK INSISTS EMOTIONS STILL AREN’T HIS AREA, GO TO CHAPTER 18](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12621192/chapters/28761812)

 

[IF SHERLOCK ADMITS HIS FEELINGS FOR JOHN ARE MORE COMPLICATED THAN THAT, GO TO CHAPTER 19](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12621192/chapters/28761852)


	16. Chapter 16

“You’re serious, then.” The realization came on slowly, but when it finally sank in it felt like the entire world had just tilted on its axis. “All this - us - and our friendship is entirely one-sided.”

“Of course not, John,” Sherlock countered. “I enjoy your presence. You’re a fine conductor of light. Friends enjoy each other’s company, yes?”

“Yes. Among other aspects of friendship.” John couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it before. Or maybe he had, but his heart hadn’t let him believe it. “You tolerate me because it benefits _you_ , though. No other reason.”

“What other reason is there for one human being to interact with another?” Sherlock frowned, a look of incomprehension on his face. “Or any other animal, for that matter? You consider yourself friends with me because you benefit as well - your limp is gone, you’re not suicidal anymore, you’re able to continue your fruitless quest for girlfriends and sex and still have something exciting to come home to. You do laundry and make tea and clean for both of us because it’s more expedient than trying to bully me into doing it because we both know I won’t, and because you feel you have inadequate other offerings to keep me from becoming bored with you. Friendship is a transaction. It’s one we’ve both approved of so far, so what’s the problem?”

“The _problem_ ,” John ground out, “is that I thought of it as more than that.” All of a sudden he was more exhausted than anything else. It was still too late (or too early) to go out and walk for hours like he normally did after an argument with Sherlock, but the need to get away from the flat was overwhelming. The flat. Sherlock’s flat. John hauled in a deliberate breath and took a long, slow look around the kitchen and sitting room. Ninety-five percent of the detritus was Sherlock’s, with John’s few possessions mostly contained to his own bedroom. His paperback novel was on the end table next to his chair, his laptop was on the floor near the fireplace (not where he’d left it), and... that was it. The only mark he’d managed to make on his flatmate’s life.

_This isn’t healthy, what you’re letting yourself become_. The words in his mind were Ella’s, but the intonation was Harry’s. Harry’s chiding words the second or third time John had abruptly left one of their stilted lunches together on the pretext of a request from Sherlock for something or other. She’d been miserable, sober and lonely and vicious, but - to use the words Sherlock would’ve - that didn’t mean her argument wasn’t sound. Odd, the idea that Harry was making better life choices than he was. She’d probably be proud of herself for that.

“I need to get out,” John said aloud. “You go see your crime scene and I’m going to get some more sleep so I don’t make a terrible decision while less than fully functional.”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted into a tiny pout. “What terrible decision? Leaving me to get into trouble alone? Usually you don’t-”

“Deciding whether I need to move on with my life,” John interrupted, before Sherlock could insult him again. “Living with you is... apparently not what I thought it was. It _has_ been interesting, don’t get me wrong, but I need more than physical danger to address my mental health issues. I’ve finally realized that this isn’t it.”

Sherlock all but rolled his eyes at the words _mental health issues._ “You’re fine, John,” he groaned. “Don’t let your ridiculous therapist make you question yourself.”

“It’s not her.” _It’s me. And you._ “Just - go, Sherlock. Solve something. I’ll let you know what I decide.”

“You’re planning to move out.” Sherlock didn’t even pretend it was a question.

“Considering it, yeah.”

“You will. You’re leaving. Everyone always does.”

John wished he could tell whether Sherlock truly was objecting or whether he was just being a manipulative bastard and knew exactly which buttons to press. “Funny thing about that,” he countered. “Wonder what the common denominator there is? Perhaps it’s you.”

Sherlock glared at him, then stalked over to the door to get his coat and scarf. “Goodbye, John,” he said tonelessly. “Don’t worry about your share of the last month’s rent - you were paying by far the smaller portion anyway.” And he left, his Belstaff swirling out behind him.

 

THE END


	17. Chapter 17

“Try it.”

Sherlock blinked. “What?”

“Try not caring about this.” John took a step forward, then another, crowding Sherlock toward the least charred wall. Apparently they were going to do this, whatever the hell _this_ was.

Sherlock licked his lips, but he backed away steadily until his shoulders hit the window and he couldn’t retreat any farther. His eyes stayed on John’s the entire time.

“I’m going to make you cry, Sherlock Holmes,” John promised. God, he’d waited for so long. “Tell me emotion is a weakness when I’ve got your cock in my hand or my mouth and you’re absolutely gagging for it. I want to see you fucking come apart and then go back to your experiment like it was nothing. Screw not being gay. It’s all just transport, right?”

“Right,” Sherlock whispered. He didn’t sound all that convincing.

“And I take care of your transport, correct? I bully you into eating, I make sure you sleep on occasion, I force various beverages at you so you don’t dehydrate?”

Sherlock nodded warily.

“Consider this part of that, then.” John was close enough to kiss him. Instead, he slid a hand down Sherlock’s taut stomach and inside his pajama trousers. Sherlock favored soft, silky fabric for his pants, apparently. _Fuck_. He stared Sherlock down, ready to withdraw and apologize if Sherlock showed the slightest sign of disgust, but Sherlock seemed frozen in time. All except his cock, which was rather quickly hardening to fill John’s hand through the silky fabric.

“You . . .” Sherlock licked his lips again. _“God_ , John.”

“I’m just being practical,” John growled into the sharp lines of Sherlock’s right collarbone. Still not touching that ivory skin, building the anticipation. “Obviously your definition of _friend_ is a bit different than mine, so I’m going to make some deductions.” He squeezed gently, then resumed his half-caress up and down Sherlock’s growing erection. “First one is easy - it’s one I’ve heard you rail about before. That no one is altruistic, and everything we do is in some way selfish. I think, Sherlock, that we’re using each other. I’m hungry for danger and excitement, which I get by living with you. You, on the other hand, get to pass off some of the care and maintenance of this ‘transport’ you’re so disgusted by. We both benefit. How am I doing so far?”

Sherlock nodded silently and tipped his head back, allowing John better access to his throat.

“Second deduction, then.” John ducked in and grazed his teeth over Sherlock’s carotid. “You’re ‘married to your work,’ as you call it, but your work doesn’t give you _this._ ” Another gentle squeeze, two quick strokes and then back to the barely-there pressure. Sherlock whimpered. “You try to pretend you don’t need sex, but we both know you wank with an inconvenient frequency. Mostly right after a case, but also when you’re stuck. If we’re just using each other and you don’t care about me beyond that, there shouldn’t be anything awkward about me tending to this aspect of your transport too, should there? Tell me yes or no.”

Sherlock was practically squirming now. The cold of the night outside had finally penetrated through his dressing gown and t-shirt, most likely. It didn’t matter.

“Yes or no, Sherlock?”

“Yes!” Sherlock hauled in a deep breath, then nudged his cock shamelessly against John’s palm. “John, please!”

“There’s my brilliant berk,” John murmured. He withdrew his hand from Sherlock’s pants and caught those slender hips instead. “Turn around.”

“Wha-”

John rotated Sherlock bodily, so they were both facing out the kitchen window. It only overlooked the alley behind, which was dark and still, but John still felt a little thrill at the idea of Sherlock coming undone right there where - theoretically - anyone could see him. He licked a broad path down his left palm, then slid his hand down Sherlock’s pants again and began pulling him off for real.

Sherlock was taller, enough that John could rest his forehead against the back of Sherlock’s neck. He couldn’t directly watch what his hand was doing, but if he tilted his head to the side he could make out a reflection of them in the window. His stockier wrist disappearing into Sherlock’s tented pajama trousers, Sherlock’s shirt bunched up and a strip of ivory skin showing. Sherlock’s shoulders were heaving, now, as he rested his own forehead against the glass. John was nearly all the way to hard already, despite his cock having had no encouragement whatsoever.

“John,” Sherlock moaned. “Christ, John, you feel so-”

“Transport,” John reminded him. “Got to make sure _all_ your needs are met.”

_“Fuck.”_

Sherlock hardly ever swore, so John took it as an excellent sign. It got even better once Sherlock’s hips started involuntarily twitching forward, fucking into John’s spit-slicked fist.

“You want to keep me around, right? You like me doing this?”

_“Ngh.”_

“You want to keep me happy so I’ll stay and take care of you, don’t you? Tell me, Sherlock.”

_“Yes! Fuck!”_

“So are you going to blow things up in the middle of the night again? Leave me at crime scenes? Sabotage my job at the surgery?”

“Yes, John . . . no, John . . . _fuck_ , I’m—”

“Come for me,” John commanded. He punctuated it with a little nip at the nape of Sherlock’s neck for good measure. It worked, too - the moment his teeth made contact, Sherlock gave a loud cry and came. Impressively. John worked him through it, gently petting Sherlock’s cock the way he liked himself when he wanked, then he wiped his sticky hand off on the side of Sherlock’s even-more-sticky pants and withdrew to lean against the edge of the kitchen table. It was several minutes before Sherlock collected himself enough to straighten and turn back around.

“Enjoy that?” John arched an eyebrow at him, keeping the rest of his expression blank.

Sherlock pulled his dressing gown tighter around himself and nodded.

“Want it to become a regular thing?”

“I...”

“Yes or no?”

“Yes.” Sherlock said it to his feet.

“Good,” John reassured him. “That’s good - I do too. And what do you think you could do to ensure this totally non-emotional, entirely practical event repeats itself sometimes?”

Sherlock stopped himself before actually rolling his eyes, but John noticed the telltale muscle twitch. “I can clean up the results of my experiment and refrain from conducting anything volatile during times when you’re asleep upstairs.”

“Excellent. Yes.” John finally allowed himself a smile. “Now, _I_ am going back upstairs and back to bed. If your ophthalmologist is still missing by nine o’clock, I will call into work and join you. You may not need sleep tonight, but I do.”

 

THE END


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock frowned. “I don’t know what you want me to say, John,” he grumbled. “None of this is really my area.”

“Ta, I got that.” John smiled to soften the comment. “And I know we’re both upstanding British males and therefore required to avoid talk about empathy and feelings at all costs. You know that’s not healthy, though, right?”

Sherlock pursed his lips and looked away.

“Come on - heaven knows if we’ll ever talk this openly again.”

“John, I...” Sherlock shook his head, his curls bouncing. “Tell me: is this the ‘where is our relationship going’ talk? I’ve never experienced it in person, but it seems to be a standard development in romantic partnerships. I apologize if-”

“Wait.” John had to blink a few times at that. Because Sherlock was right, damn him: John _was_ instigating “the talk.” Despite neither of them having given even the slightest hint toward mutual attraction. Not intentionally, anyway. Sherlock was gorgeous - anyone with eyes could see that - but that didn’t mean John was gay. Or bi. Or whatever. Point was, had this somehow slid over into “relationship” without him noticing?

“You may think me an idiot for asking,” John said slowly, “but... do you consider this a romantic partnership? A relationship? I mean, that first night at Angelo’s you made it sound like you were saying...”

 

[IF SHERLOCK REASSERTS THAT’S HE’S ASEXUAL, GO TO CHAPTER 20](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12621192/chapters/28761872)

 

[IF SHERLOCK AVOIDS ANSWERING THE QUESTION, GO TO CHAPTER 21](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12621192/chapters/28761904)


	19. Chapter 19

Sherlock stared off into space - or more accurately, off into the empty fireplace - for so long John assumed he wouldn’t answer. When he did, it sounded like he was still wandering through his mind palace and the words were an afterthought.

“John,” he said softly, “I’ve never... you know reading other people is difficult for me. I can dissect their tells and hypothesize based on those, but I can’t _feel_ them the way you do. I rely on you more than you may know, when it comes to that. It never used to bother me before, whether I got those details right or not, because I’d decided a long time ago that it wasn’t important.”

“You weren’t good at it, so it was therefore beneath you?” That wasn’t surprising at all. John huffed out a hint of a laugh. “That was Harry and me with chess.”

Sherlock nodded vaguely. “Until you showed up in my life,” he continued, “I didn’t - well, I just _didn’t_. Let myself care about any of that. Mental manipulation was Mycroft’s domain; I was more interested in particles and trace evidence and all those physical things that never try to say one thing and mean another.” His intense gaze abruptly snapped to John’s face, making John have to repress the urge to squirm under the scrutiny. “You hate it when I try to manipulate you,” he added.

Well that was certainly true. John inclined his head. “And?”

“And that presents me with a conundrum. I find myself experiencing something new when I’m around you, something that impedes on my ability to do The Work. I eat when you feed me, sleep when you point out that it’s been a few days... I’ve even apologized to Lestrade because I knew you’d be furious with me if I didn’t. I’m worried I’m misreading your cues, that I interpret our interactions as you having romantic feelings for me.” He licked his lips, a mannerism John found oddly familiar. “I’m afraid it might be wishful thinking,” he added softly. “Am... am I wrong?”

 

[IF JOHN IS INTERESTED, GO TO 24](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12621192/chapters/28761992)

 

[IF JOHN GENTLY REITERATES THAT HE’S NOT GAY, GO TO 25](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12621192/chapters/28762012)


	20. Chapter 20

“Asexual would be the proper term,” Sherlock finished for him. “Or ‘ace,’ according to the internet. It took me a long time to come to grips with that.”

“Oh. Right.” John nodded. “So you are, um. That? Ace?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, a shade of his usual sarcasm coming back into his tone. “If you insist on a label, yes. When I was younger I assumed it was because everyone around me was boring and that’s why I never experienced that hormonal cocktail most teenage boys spend all their time pursuing. As I got older I realized it was because I wasn’t interested, period. Hence: Not. My. Area.”

“Ah.” John was surprised to find it hurt, a little bit - even though logically he know it was for the best if Sherlock’s answer would be “no, of course I’ve not been pining for you,” it still felt like a slap to be told directly that he wasn’t Sherlock’s exception. _Although why would I be?_ It’s not like he’d given Sherlock any encouragement . . .

“It’s not because I’m not capable of emotions,” Sherlock added, likely misreading John’s silence. “I feel them on my own behalf in a perfectly healthy manner. But you keep expecting me to empathize with other people, often complete strangers, and that’s... I find it difficult to do.”

John purposely didn’t let himself flip through his mental DSM-V for matching diagnoses (ASD, NPD, EDD . . . _no, stop_ ). Sherlock would almost certainly be a statistical outlier in any mental health data set, anyway. And he seemed perfectly content keeping his nether parts to himself, so this wasn’t in any way John’s business. Surely that was just as well; John had a hard enough time keeping Sherlock’s eating habits, sleep habits, and general-human-courtesy habits within normal parameters. Trying to manage Sherlock’s sex life... _no, thank you._

“You’re thinking,” Sherlock groaned. “It’s boring. Yes, I masturbate; no, I don’t usually bother. I can tell when someone’s conventionally attractive - the geometry is all there - but I don’t usually get erections in response to visual stimuli. I’m fine with whatever coincidental touching we do around the flat but I’m not about to either molest you or start wearing extra layers to avoid the possibility of physical contact. There. It’s all transport, like I said when we first met and have said many times since. Any more stupid questions, please wait until at least tomorrow - that will give you time to have the more idiotic ones answered by strangers on the internet before you inflict them on me. After tomorrow you can ask but right now we have a case so _get dressed already!_ ”

“You’re wearing pajamas and my apron, Sherlock. Or are you going out like that?”

Sherlock blinked, then glanced down at his own lap in surprise. “Oh. I’d deleted it.”

_Berk_. “I’ll be right back down, yeah? Get as much of that whatever-it-is cleaned off you first, though - if you miscalculated the size of the explosion, who knows what else you got wrong.”

Sherlock immediately puffed up like he always did whenever John called his omniscience into question, ready to argue, but John just shot him the V behind his back as he headed back upstairs. It was good having had this talk, John decided. Sherlock clung so tightly to that “sociopath” label, but how much of that was him covering for the fact that a significant subtext in the majority of human interactions was passing him by? It would make sense for Sherlock to declare it all “not his area” instead of admit there was something he wasn’t a complete expert in.

When he got back down, Sherlock was bouncing on the balls of his feet in front of the door and holding out John’s coat in offering. “A crime scene is waiting,” Sherlock proclaimed with that eager little twinkle in his eye John loved so much. “Ready?”

_Onward, then, unto the breach._ John surprised him with a brief hug before accepting the coat. “Ready.”

 

THE END


	21. Chapter 21

Was it just John’s imagination, or was Sherlock blushing? “I’ve been assured you and I definitely have a ‘relationship’ of some sort,” Sherlock mumbled. “A work partnership, obviously.”

“...And?”

Sherlock frowned. “And we have a case?”

“Okay. Fine.” If the git didn’t want to discuss it, John didn’t want to pry. No, scratch that - he _did_ want to, but he was an adult, dammit, and unlike some consulting detectives he was able to keep his mouth shut on occasion. But... “Second question,” he said. “Are you trying to drag me to a crime scene at two o’clock in the morning because you truly need to see it right this bloody second, or is it because you’re bored and are hoping I’ll forget about the mess in the kitchen if I’m not drowning in the scent of charred mystery goo?”

Sherlock was getting ready to lie; it was right there on his face. John folded his arms and gave the berk his best army stare. Sherlock only held up a few moments longer before sagging in defeat. “Lestrade did send pictures,” he admitted.

“Good. In that case.” John grabbed the nearest computer - his own, this time - and plopped it on Sherlock’s bony lap. “You pull them up and I’ll make the tea. If you need help guessing my password...”

“I don’t.”

“Then I’ll be back in a tick.” He put the kettle on and got out two clean mugs from the _Sherlock do not touch I mean it I know where your precious sock index is_ cupboard. By the time the tea was done, Sherlock had the photos pulled up on the screen and had shuffled to one end of the sofa to make space for John at the other.

The first several were of a perfectly normal-looking bedroom, as far as John could tell. Large bed, white duvet, a few loose items on the bureau, but otherwise it wouldn’t have been out of place in a rental listing. There were some pictures of a dark wooden staircase, an alarmingly white-and-formal sitting room, and some close-ups of the occasional scuff mark. Halfway through the list, though, the photos switched to showing a smallish waiting room. It looked much like every other doctor waiting room ever, except for the char marks on the ceiling and walls and the debris littered over the institutional-type furniture. Sherlock slowed down, then, zooming in and poring over each picture.

“You didn’t look these over already?” John asked quietly.

Sherlock hummed in response. “Reproducing the chemical signature of the explosive was more interesting.”

“Of course it was.”

Sherlock’s gaze flicked up to John’s face for a moment. “I did apologize, if you’d remember.”

“Twat.” John nudged Sherlock’s shoulder playfully with his own, then stood to go put their empty cups in the sink. Maybe it was just the lack of sleep, but if he stayed there on the sofa huddled next to Sherlock he’d probably end up flopped over on the lanky git’s lap. “If I make you some toast, would you eat it?” he asked.

“Mmmmmm.”

John made some anyway.

*** 

Roughly an hour later, Sherlock sucked in a sudden breath and sat up straighter. John jerked awake from where he’d been dozing - _dammit_ \- against Sherlock’s shoulder. “Found something?” he mumbled.

“The sitting room carpet,” Sherlock pronounced. He was already composing a text to Lestrade, John noted with approval. The Sherlock of six months ago wouldn’t have done that. “You can see the vacuum pattern clearly in the sixth photo. Increasing the contrast on the seventh, you can see faint footprints from the stairs straight to the kitchen - if the wife truly had gone about her morning routine as usual, she would have had a cup of coffee in front of the morning news before going back upstairs to change into her professional attire for the day.”

“How-”

“You can see by the rings on the coffee table, John.”

“Ah.”

“If she’s lying about that, then, it stands to reason she may be lying about how she discovered the note. Lestrade’s bound to be able to uncover some CCTV footage of the door where the ransom note was supposedly tacked. I suspect he won’t find anything because the note was never on the door at all.”

“Brilliant,” John murmured.

Sherlock turned his head to look at him. It’s not something John hadn’t said a million times before, but it felt different now that they were sitting so close on the sofa - personal space be damned - and John was still pleasantly fuzzy with the tea and the lack of actual sleep. “Thank you,” Sherlock whispered.

_To hell with it; now’s the time_. Sherlock’s gorgeous lips were centimeters from his own and John wanted so badly to lean forward and capture them in a soft kiss. They both sat, frozen, for a long moment.

 

[ IF JOHN KISSES SHERLOCK, GO TO CHAPTER 22](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12621192/chapters/28761944)

 

[IF JOHN KEEPS HIS HANDS (AND LIPS) TO HIMSELF, GO TO CHAPTER 23](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12621192/chapters/28761976)


	22. Chapter 22

John went slow, telegraphing every nuance so the most perceptive consulting detective in the world wouldn’t help but be able to interpret his intentions. Sherlock froze in place.

The first contact was soft, more of a tease than an actual kiss. John followed it up with a more definite nudge, still close-mouthed but encouraging, urging Sherlock to respond. And he did, in the form of a soft huff which fanned warm breath over John’s face.

“All right?” John murmured. “I’ve wanted to do this for so-”

Sherlock abruptly pulled away and stood. The movement had none of his usual fluid grace, but John still felt the hypnotic draw anyway - Sherlock in motion was eye-catching, attention-grabbing. Effortless yet controlled. This Sherlock backed away several steps and ended up standing near the window. He brought his fingertips to his lips and brushed them gingerly, his eyes wide.

“Did I surprise you?” John asked quietly. “I didn’t mean to.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I... I’ve never...”

“That wasn’t your first kiss. I’ve seen you.”

“For cases. When I’m focused on - when I’m not being me. I didn’t think you...” He trailed off, still staring at John. “Why?”

“Why did I kiss you? Or why am I not insisting I’m not gay?”

Sherlock swallowed hard. “Both,” he whispered.

“I kissed you because I wanted to,” John answered simply. “And because I knew you’d never initiate, and because I hoped you wanted it too. I’m still not gay, I don’t think, but we were talking about emotions and us being in a relationship of sorts and I realized... I’m in love with you. I have been for a while now, I just didn’t realize it.”

If anything, Sherlock shrank back further at the declaration. “You can’t - you can’t love me.” He closed his eyes for a long moment. “John, I’m broken. I’m a sociopath and an utter arse and a bastard and you know - _you know_ \- that loving me would end badly.”

John shrugged and offered a small smile. “And yet, here I am.”

Sherlock shook his head again, more conviction in it this time. “I’m not capable of returning that sentiment,” he insisted. “I’ll manipulate you and take advantage of you and fail to take your own needs into account. I’ll still leave you at crime scenes and smoke while you’re not watching and piss off violent criminals who will occasionally make attempts to end my life. You’ll get more and more resentful of my deficiencies over time until what you think is love reveals itself to be nothing more than an unhealthy dependence on the excitement being in my orbit can bring you. And then I’ll break you, John. I’ll break you and I won’t notice, or won’t care, because _I can’t be that person for you_. Please don’t ask me to.”

John had to focus on breathing - in and out, in and out. Nod yes, okay, understood. Sherlock... doesn’t want that. _Doesn’t want me_. “I see,” John forced out. “Have I just... made things awkward now?”

Sherlock paused, then grimaced. “Probably. You’re not very good at deleting things.” He sighed. “I’m not either, when it comes to you.”

“I didn’t mean to-”

“I know you didn’t,” he interrupted, “but you’re a man of pathos rather than logos. Emotion over logic. I could say it’s fine and we could pretend to go back to normal, but it wouldn’t be. You’d be second-guessing every comment, every decision we make, trying to see whether you’ve ruined our friendship by making a pass at me. You’d avoid even incidental physical contact, which would only make the situation worse. You’re embarrassed to have misread the situation and mad at yourself for acting based on hope rather than deducing from the evidence - that I’m not overly concerned with my transport, that I’ve never made sexual overtures to you or anyone else, that I don’t have sordid skeletons of exes past in my closet. It’s a natural reaction, John, but it’s an unhelpful one.”

_Fucking hell_. Somehow having Sherlock lay it all out like that, detached and matter-of-fact, cleared out the last of the hopefulness in John’s brain. “I’ve fucked up whatever relationship we do have, in other words.”

“It doesn’t bother me either way,” Sherlock assured him. “And while I’m flattered by your attention - and I do mean that, John, it’s not just a line, you’re one of the few human beings on this planet whom I could say that to - I do still consider myself married to my work. I don’t do...” He waved vaguely between the two of them. “This, sentiment, whatever it is. I’m planning to try deleting this conversation as soon as possible and hopefully it will have no effect on my perception of you whatsoever. How you handle it on your side is your business.”

“Right. Okay.” John sucked in a deep breath and nodded. “For what it’s worth, I apologize for having misread the situation. I’ll try to delete it too, although lord knows I’ll never be able to do it the same way you do.”

“Of course not,” Sherlock agreed. “But I appreciate that you’ll make the effort. Relationship or not, I do value your company.”

It would have to do.

 

THE END


	23. Chapter 23

_What the fuck am I thinking?_ John jerked back so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. Snogging on the sofa was decidedly _not_ something two mates in a “work partnership” did, even when one of the parties was Sherlock Holmes and practically made his career out of doing things that “aren’t done.” No way to know if Sherlock was thinking the same thing John was, or if he was merely... _hell_. Deducing something from the state of John’s eyelashes or something.

Sherlock, for his part, was blushing again and had also drawn back a respectable distance. They both took a moment to stretch and to pointedly avoid eye contact.

“Well.” John pasted a nice, normal smile on his face. “Does this mean we need to go help Lestrade round up the wife, or can I go back to bed while you clean up the mess?”

Sherlock frowned. “I thought you wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep.”

“There’s a drool stain on your shoulder that says otherwise.” Sherlock immediately started twisting this way and that, trying to see his own shoulder and the non-existent drool stain, and John couldn’t hold in a laugh. “Sorry - I had to. I don’t think I drooled enough to stain your robe, and even if I did you’d never be able to tell. What with the debris from your bloody IED baked into the fabric and all.”

Sherlock grumbled something which might or might not have actually been in English.

“I’ve got to say I like the silhouette look, though.” Now that John was paying attention, it was obvious that Sherlock’s robe and pajamas were a slightly brighter shade underneath where the apron had protected them. John’s apron that Sherlock had stolen, of course. “Very avant-garde chic. So what are the chances you can restore our kitchen to its correct color before I get up for real this morning?”

“Can, or will?”

“Don’t make me break out the threats.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “John, please. Like you can-”

“That picture I got of you with your head stuck in the rungs of the old kitchen chair,” John mused. “The one where your hair is all matted with that honey mixture you were experimenting with and your face is just a shade off from a tomato? Don’t bother telling me you deleted it off my phone - I backed it up on my computer and two different places online.”

“I think you’ll find that particular file is corrupted,” Sherlock said.

“Doesn’t matter. The one you can’t get to is on Mycroft’s assistant’s phone. _That_ one. I sent her a few other photos too, all set to pass on to Mycroft and your parents if you try to pawn off this mess on me.”

“That’s blackmail!”

“Yep.” John had to laugh at Sherlock’s pole-axed expression. It felt amazing to get the upper hand, for once. “Right, then - I’m going back to bed, now that you’re done blowing things up. You _are_ done, right?”

Sherlock glared at him.

“I thought so. Goodnight, Sherlock.”

John climbed the stairs back to his room to the accompanying sounds of Sherlock grumbling in German and angrily turning on the sink. Snogging may be something business partners didn’t do, but blackmail was definitely par for the course. Thank god for mobile phones and their cameras.

 

THE END


	24. Chapter 24

In all John’s imaginings - and there were many - he’d never expected _Sherlock_ to be the one to suggest they attempt a proper relationship. It would have been a perfectly logical deduction to assume that John “I’m not gay” Watson was, in fact, not interested in sex with another man. Even though the longer they lived together, the more John was starting to doubt his initial proclamation.

“Not wrong,” John admitted. “I hadn’t meant to imply, that first night - you know, when you said you considered yourself ‘married to your work’ - I really was just curious. I’ve never done this with another man. The more I got to know you, though...” He broke off and shook his head. “ _Fuck_ , Sherlock. I shot a man for you less than twenty-four hours after we first met. And it’s only gotten better from there. How could you, who never second-guesses himself, think I wouldn’t jump at the chance for more?”

Sherlock’s face went through a kaleidoscope of emotions as John spoke: apprehension, disappointment, wry humor, affront, and then so much joy John wished he could bottle it and save the sight for times when he was furious at his wonderful, idiotic flatmate. Because making Sherlock look at him that way was-

 _“Incredible_ ,” Sherlock breathed. He slowly, hesitantly, slid out of his chair and scuttled the short distance to kneel in front of John, his eyes still wide. John took pity on him immediately and hauled the brilliant berk - long limbs and all - up into his lap. They ended up with Sherlock’s knees bracketing John’s hips, his breath warm on John’s forehead, and indisputable, unmistakable evidence that they were both aroused. John tipped his head back to beam up at his flatmate-and-hopefully-more, which Sherlock took as permission to duck down and press a chaste kiss to John’s suddenly-dry lips.

“You want-” John chased Sherlock’s mouth for another quick kiss “-you want this, yeah?” He let his hands, currently framing Sherlock’s lower ribcage, gradually drift lower until he was almost-but-not-quite palming that arse that even in John’s I’m-not-gay-est moments he had to admit was rather stunning. “Because you’re worth making an exception for. You’re worth ninety percent of the Yard laughing at me for. You’re worth... _hell_. You’re my everything, Sherlock. And I want to be your everything too.”

Sherlock was literally trembling in John’s lap, his eyes wide and shining and his mouth hanging open in astonishment. “John,” he whispered. “John, I... you’re worth learning the _solar system_ for. Because you contain the baricenter for my often-irregular orbit and any change that decreases the distance to our periapsis is a good one.”

It might have ruined the mood, but John couldn’t help it - he laughed. Sherlock frowned down at him until he had to reluctantly chuckle too.

“Sorry - not romantic enough?”

“Twat.” John tightened his grip on Sherlock’s arse and ground the two of them together, the resulting pressure on their cocks making both of them gasp. “Oh, god. We’re never going to be a normal couple, are we?”

Sherlock smirked. “Normal is boring.”

“Yeah.” With his hands occupied, John had to stretch his neck like a turtle to coax Sherlock back into a kiss. Luckily, Sherlock was very observant. “You,” John murmured into Sherlock’s skin, “are the best thing that has ever happened to me. And _yes_ , I want this. Us. But give me a bit of time to flirt with you properly - right now, you’ve got a murder to solve.”

“Ah.” Sherlock blinked several times, and John felt an odd rush of pride knowing that he was the reason for Sherlock’s inability to focus. “Yes, that. I can... you like telling me I’m clever.”

“And you like showing off.” John grinned at him, then snuck a cheeky pinch to Sherlock’s bum. It made Sherlock jump and emit a surprised squeak. “Let’s go, then - you be brilliant, I’ll tell you you’re amazing, and while you’re not looking I can Google that baricycle orbit whatchamacallit thing.”

***

It took a good twenty more minutes and two follow-up texts from Lestrade asking where they bloody well were before they got out of John’s chair and into more appropriate clothes for a 3 AM crime scene. Sherlock still wasn’t wearing pants. Which was fine, because John was finding he very much liked picturing him without them.

There were more conventional relationships, of course, but nothing could compare with shagging Sherlock Holmes.

 

THE END


	25. Chapter 25

“Romantic as in sexual?” Normally Sherlock hated when John asked “obvious” questions, but this was entirely new territory for them and it was important to ensure he hadn’t misunderstood. _Sherlock Holmes is... asking me for sex?_ “Sherlock, I just want to make sure you’re asking what I think you’re asking.”

Sherlock blushed rather brilliantly and made a tiny noise in the back of his throat he’d probably insist later was not a squeak. John was struck once again at how lopsided Sherlock’s life experience seemed to be - he could sketch thousands of molecules from memory, speak six languages, play the violin like an angel, and who knows what else, but John would have given even odds Sherlock had never been kissed. Never when he wasn’t playing a role for a case, anyway. He stayed silent long past when John expected him to answer.

“I’m not gay,” John said once again. Never before had it felt so much like an apology. “Sherlock, I... damn it. I love you, okay? When I think about the future, I envision the two of us growing old together, solving crimes and bickering and pretty much doing everything we do already. I’m not saying I don’t find you objectively attractive-”

“John.” Sherlock was staring at him with his jaw somewhere in the vicinity of his knees. “You... you love me? Truly?”

“Fuck it. Yeah, I do, you bloody berk. Not that you make it easy.”

Saying it aloud _was_ easy, though. Especially surprising since John hadn’t even _thought_ the words in relation to Sherlock before. Or to anyone, really. “Love” had always been tied up in thoughts of sex and babies and in-laws and those all seemed like the kind of things John supposed he was expected to take along with the pretty wife and the boring job. What he felt for Sherlock was unquestionably love, now that he acknowledged the feeling, even though the tag-along obligations were conspicuously absent. And as for what Sherlock felt for him...

“I think I love you too, John,” Sherlock breathed, eyes still wide. “I... I don’t have anything to compare it to, but...”

John couldn’t help his grin. Let Sherlock deduce all the hell he wanted.

“You know I don’t ‘do’ this,” Sherlock said. “I haven’t, before. And as much as I’m elated beyond measure to learn my feelings are requited, I rarely...”

“You’re asexual?”

Sherlock frowned. “I hate labels, but ‘asexual’ is likely accurate. Transport, remember. I’m willing to try to-”

“Sherlock.” John stood up and offered Sherlock a hand, then tugged him into a tight hug right there in the middle of the sitting room. “You’re an idiot,” he whispered in Sherlock’s ear. “Let’s sort this out, yeah? What about this right now: good or bad?”

“Good,” Sherlock said immediately. John could literally feel the rumble of his baritone through where their chests touched.

“Right then.” John pulled him toward the couch, the two of them still holding hands, until he could maneuver Sherlock down somewhere in the middle with enough space left for John to plonk down at his side. “Look, I’m not interested in... that... either. I think.”

“Sexual intercourse?”

God, this wasn’t going to be an easy conversation. Beyond the fact that it was a minor miracle Sherlock was allowing them to talk about their relationship at all, John had never particularly tried to tease out the different aspects of “I love you” before. Then again, he’d never loved anyone the way he knew, down deep in his bones, that he loved Sherlock.

“The whole touching each other’s cocks thing, probably,” John admitted. “But I like this. Us. Just... hell, I don’t want to say ‘cuddling,’ but...”

“Sharing platonic contact.” Sherlock squirmed sideways until he managed to wedge himself flat on his back with his head in John’s lap and his eyes closed. He reminded John of a very large cat trying to fit in a very small box. “Reinforces the connection between the partners and allows both parties to communicate more easily without needing to find the words. Something neither of us are particularly good at - the communication, not the connection - so logically it follows that the more we ‘cuddle’ the healthier our relationship will be.”

“Oh, Christ.” John couldn’t help but thread his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, gently massaging his scalp, and Sherlock all but _melted_ into him. “You’re going to use this every time you piss me off, aren’t you?”

“Not every time,” Sherlock mumbled. “Just when you’re angry at me and you want me to clean. Mmmm, that feels wonderful.”

 _Angry. Cleaning._ The words jerked John back into the present. Bloody hell, how had he already started to forget the whole reason Sherlock exploded their kitchen in the first place?

“Speaking of which,” John said, and stood up. Sherlock was _definitely_ enjoying the scalp massage, because his normally graceful reflexes didn’t kick in until he’d already done a near-faceplant onto the floor. “I promise I’ll do that again after you finish cleaning up the mess in the kitchen,” John vowed. “But did you say something about a case?”

 

THE END


End file.
